Jennifer and I have recently rediscovered our love of camping and hiking.

Our second camping trip this month took us to another national park in our province, one much closer to home. The last camping adventure was numbing affair for my saddle (4 hours by motorbike), however this most recent trip was only an hour and a half. A few small highways due north of town took us to Chaolaem Rattanakasin National Park. On the way, only 10km out of town, we (I) hit a massive rock with the motorbike and promptly flattened the back tire. Amazingly only 2 minutes passed before 3 cars in a row stopped to help us, a true testament to the kindness and generosity of Thai people. We loaded the crippled bike and cargo onto the back of a pick-up, Jennifer climbed into the front and I, brave soul that I am, saddled the bike to hold it steady as we drove to the nearest mechanic. The total time lost from our trip was only 30 minutes, from flat to fixed.

The highways wound through open plains and flat bottomed valleys, papaya plantations and rows of sugar cane and baby corn. The last stretch of road took a sharp turn west into the now looming hills and rounded mountains of the park. The climate changed immediately as we entered the claustrophobic spaces of tropical jungle. Clouds rolled over our little highway and a misting rain announced our arrival. We rolled into the park in the afternoon and found a large grove of banyan trees, under which we pitched our tent. The humidity was maxed out under the lush canopy of the park and mosquitos the size of small birds were hovering menacingly as we raced to set up camp. After a while we found that a healthy combination of citronella, Deet, and burning incense seemed to keep them quiet. The humidity, however, was not as easy to get used to.

Our tent is that tiny little blue speck in the bottom left corner.

In total we spent 3 days and 2 nights in the park. We had planned for another night; however the torrential downpours from the monsoon that occurred twice a day and twice a night soaked most of our clothes by the third day. In addition, one of the aluminum tent poles broke and the splint I put on it failed after only a day. Unlike the previous national park we visited, this one had decent trail access to the plethora of waterfalls and caves within its boundaries. My favorite hike was on a trail that led for nearly 2 kilometers along a stream within a huge cave. The trail emerged from the other end of the cave into a completely different world. Enormous prehistoric palms with serrated edges and jagged thorns; vast canopy trees with buttresses splaying grandly across the forest floor; all of them towering over us and instilling a distinct awareness of our feeble stature. Even the insects seemed to taunt our preconceptions of appropriate size.

The trail continued along the stream and quickly began to climb the valley, passing gushing cascades, waterfalls, and pools in which we bathed. A wooden staircase formed the trail here, decrepit, slimy, and treacherous in places. As my legs started to pump battery acid from the ascent, the trail entered a landscape too complex and erratic to describe properly in words. At first we were squeezed tightly between massive boulders draped in a complicated latticework of roots, after which we emerged underneath a great waterfall, and then followed the trail up and along the back of it before opening the world into some kind of fantastical scene dreamed by Tolkien. Here at the top of the stream, our dark little canyon continued forward yet the sheer cliffs and crags of the mountain still towered over us. Then I could see…that the trail and stream actually go right through the mountain under a colossal arch a hundred meters above us. Bats swooped around in their restless dance below the dripping stalactites and limestone ripples of the impossible architecture. A small shrine had been erected under the arch next to a small strip of dirt for walking meditation. Strangely, one of the statues on the shrine was of the Hindu god Ganesh. On the far side of the arch, through another winding trail of jungle and stream, was a small temple where we stopped and had lunch.

That night, with sore muscles and a thirst unquenchable, we found a small shelter near our campsite with a bamboo platform. Here we took shelter as another monsoon downpour soaked our peaceful glade. Fortunately we planned ahead and carried with us a bag of freshly purchased beer and our travel game of Yahtzee. A group of Thai travelers with a similar idea for shelter and fun joined us and the night transformed into a loud and hysterical session of Thai/English butchery and drinking games. They drank us under the table with modesty. When we were forced to drink by some roll of the dice, we’d take a swig; however, when it was their turn, down went cups of whiskey soda and whole liters of cheap beer. A few of them succumbed to a kind of liquid self-destruction, and then the night was over.

Our last day was spent hiking trails in search of waterfalls and a fabled 20 meter waterslide called the Slider Waterfall. We followed a few trails and blundered through signs written in Thai script, crossing our fingers that we took the right turn in the fork. After 3 or 4 kilometers and peaking anxieties, the falls were before us. A series of cascades tumbled down into pools at various levels of smoothly rolling granite, forming a continuous slide to a final drop and plunge at the bottom. I could hardly contain the childlike giddiness that bubbled over as I stared out at the waterslide. After scouting the route from top to bottom, then methodically testing each section like the adept scientist that I am, I calculated the risk of fatal concussion or mangled body to be slightly less than the perceived reward. For some reason Jennifer refused to act as guinea pig for the full test run, so I volunteered. Doing as I heard the locals do, I wedged myself into the slide at the top, damming the water and filling the pool behind me. Then, just as the water was about to top over my body, I sat up and let the pool drain in a big rush. I pushed off and rode the great flood, careening down the slick granite and through the turns. I flew through the air off a lip in the rock, landing on my back with legs splayed in all directions like some kind of apprehensive break-dancer. No time for dancing though, as my body was hurled again off the last ledge and into the deep pool below. The process was repeated a dozen times with subtle variations, some of the more daring ones leading to painful scrapes and bruises. Mostly though, the water and rock took us where it wanted and laughed at our petty attempts at acrobatics.

As the sky darkened and threatened more storms, we put our clothes on and turned back the way we came. Our time was up: the tent was in a sad shape, our clothes stinky and molding, and we were tired. Completely satiated with our long weekend, we packed and left. The winds whipped up as we broke camp and agreed with us that it was time to go.

***Reminder: Click on any of the images in these blog posts to view a larger and higher resolution version. Highly recommended 😉

Getting a new tube after the flat

Our tent is that tiny little blue speck in the bottom left corner.

Lunch under the banyan trees

Jennifer at the mouth of the cave

The massive buttresses of the canopy trees

Some falls along our hike to cool off in

The staircase trail of sore legs

Trees growing out of sheer rock

The latticework makes for good climbing, but also a home to nasty red ants.

This is the time of year where the normal plethora of Thai holidays seems to thin out and the weeks seem to drag on. You can feel it at school, the tension between admin and teachers building with little annoyances like when to turn on the AC in the teacher’s lounge. Everyone seems noticeably more tired and irritable. I guess you get used to a holiday every week in Thailand, but unfortunately most of the first academic semester is void of them. So thank Buddha for this past long weekend, Asalha Bucha day, which marks Buddha’s first sermon in Deer Park and the beginning of Buddhist “lent”.

Jennifer and I have been antsy to do some camping in Thailand, and after doing some research on nearby National Parks in our province, we picked one and committed. The only caveat: it’s 200km away, we don’t have a car, and it’s the monsoon season. I’m not one to worry over petty minutiae, the solution was simple: Strap as much gear as possible to Jennifer’s back and call it a motorbike road trip! The destination: Thom Pha Phum National park, in the misty and mountainous rainforest along the Burmese border.

We started a day later than we had hoped due to a birthday party and a long night of drinking and dancing, so on Sunday we made our getaway. The ride was long, at least 4 hours on a little 125cc motorbike/scooter with far too much gear hanging off it. The last 50km were stunningly beautiful; a slow, steep, and winding paved road that delved deep into the thick of it, sporadically gaining a vantage of the dark green expanses. The weather changed dramatically as we climbed the foothills, the temperature dropping from 35C to 20C and the weather from partly cloudy to misting rain as we entered the clouds. At least a couple times the rain came down too hard to ride and we pulled into coffee houses or shelters along the way. We were prepared for the rain, but not for the cold. One measly little blanket and a sarong was our bedding for the duration.

Leaving the park fully loaded

The National Park is huge but access is very limited due to the rugged nature of the terrain and flora. There is the one paved road that runs through only a small part of it, and many more miles of 4×4 and high clearance roads, but even those are nearly inaccessible due to the rain and mud of the season. We camped in a small wooded area on a ridge that had been cleared and some areas leveled for tents. The view on this knoll was spectacular, sweeping north into the lush mountains of Burma and East to the massive Khao Lem reservoir. After we arrived, I explored the campground the get the lay of the land…this is my camping tradition. 1) Do a preliminary scan and select the best spot for the tent taking into consideration view, shelter from weather, and access to water or wood, in that order. 2) Set up the tent but hold off unpacking the rest of my stuff until I 3) Do a thorough survey of the entire campground and surrounding area. During step 3 of my OCD camping routine, I was dive-bombed by a huge bird, the Thai name sounding something like “nooh nguuak”, or a Giant Hornbill. This bird was in fact very large, and the sound of the wind rushing through its feathers as it dives inches above your head resembles jet fighter. I wasn’t expecting it, so yes I screamed like a girl and jumped.

The massive Hornbill that haunted our campsite

The next few days we explored by motorbike as much as we could of the surrounding area, and when we found roads impassable by mud or rocks we just got off and hiked. One highlight was a beautiful waterfall at the end of a long and windy dirt road turned mud luge. We had to walk this. By the end our boots were soiled and our legs were sore, but the waterfall was stunning and worth it, even for the leeches. After a short swim and photo shoot in front of the falls, the ensuing foul weather chased us back up the ridge to our motorbike. Later we ventured into the tiny village of Pilok, basically the end of the road. On the other side of Pilok and a mountain ridge was Burma. After exploring the sleepy little village and having a hot meal at a streetside restaurant, we scooted closer to the border. Our curiosity was piqued about where exactly Burma was, if there was a fence or wall or whatever, and how difficult would it be to cross the border. After getting lost on some tiny winding roads, we eventually steered our motorbike to an overlook where two flags, Thai and Burmese, stood side by side. The clouds had closed in at this point, and the view from the overlook was into a wall of mist. The clouds parted for only quick a moment, revealing an immense expanse of mountainous rainforest and nothing else. Just visible below the overlook was a large natural gas pipeline from Burma going right through the mountains into Thailand. We walked a little further and found the border gate into Burma, a crappy gravel road in Thailand fading to a worn dirt footpath in Burma. A Thai border guard gestured us to follow him across the border, and dammit I couldn’t say no! So we ducked under a fence and around some razor wire into Burma, legality unknown, and walked down a path to another vantage point. A hundred meters was enough for me without a Visa, so after a few photos the guard escorted us back to Thailand.

But a glimpse of Burma and the gas pipelines.

The nights were all very rainy, as were parts of the day, but we didn’t let it rain on our parade. The tent and rainfly did their job, as did our ponchos and boots, so we stayed dry. It was a beautiful few days camping in the cool misty jungle near Burma, and as we returned to lower elevations the weather dried off and warmed up. I’ll never forget the sounds at night as we were camping. You could stand out on an observation platform near our tent at night and look out over the jungle and mountains and valleys, and just listen to the wild and bizarre symphony of sounds echoing forth. I could only imagine the sources of the noises, the myriad of creatures playing, hunting, and communicating in their way. If you looked long enough and adjusted your eyes, sometimes you could see short pulses of blue-green light as bioluminescent insects danced in the night sky.

The massive Hornbill that haunted our campsite

Panorama of our campground

View just outside our tent

No footing at all in this muck

4×4 en route to a waterfall

Despite the cool weather I eventually jumped right in

My feet and my waterfall

Lot’s of green in these parts!

We’re still picking these seeds out of our clothing

Coming up on Pilok

Lunch in Pilok…noodles!

Jennifer doesn’t like the mystery meatballs

Thai and Burmese flags at the border, in the clouds.

But a glimpse of Burma and the gas pipelines.

A slot in the mountain through which we passed into Burma, escorted by this fine lad.

The night after our resupply in Breck, below the Ten Mile range, we had our first campsite flood. The site had been used quite a bit, and as a result the dirt was packed down hard as cement under our tarp. When a midnight rainstorm ripped through the woods, the water simply ran over the surface instead of soaking into the ground. We woke up with little rivers of rainwater washing under our ground cloth. Down sleeping bags don’t like to get wet, in fact they’re pretty much useless if they do, so we scrambled around in the dark trying to dig a moat around our bags to keep the water off. Eventually we secured the perimeter, but the paranoia of getting our bags wet kept us from sleeping well.

In the morning we packed up all our wet gear, with the weather already threatening more rain, and marched up to the top of the mountain range. The trail insisted on taking us on the most direct route up the mountains, foregoing the usual switch back method. This means we were practically crawling up the steep slopes at times, very very slowly. Marmots and Pika’s were chirping at us all the way up, and by the time we crested the summit the wind was howling tremendously. The views were spectacular 360 degrees clear around. We hustled our way over the pass and down the other side, just as absurdly steep as the ascent. Half way down our knees were in such bad shape we stopped and had a lunch of Advil. The trail leveled out in another valley and then began the climb up Copper Mountain. We literally walked right through the ski resort village of Copper, stopping to eat a disappointing burger at a pub along the way. We failed to find our planned campsite along the ski runs, so we ended up hiking through the dark until we came across a completely unsuitable patch of ground and called it a day.

More climbing and beautiful mountain passes as we followed the trail further towards Twin Lakes, our next resupply. We peaked Copper Mountain at Searle Pass and again at Kokomo Pass, where we met a bunch of mountain bikers on some of the gnarliest stretch of trail. Walking this uneven, rocky slate is hard enough, but riding a bike up it seems ludicrous. Apparently the trails along this stretch of Rockies are famous for downhill riding and I imagine you have to be in top condition to keep from killing yourself. Here the trail finally eased up a bit, descending into a large valley and slightly less steep terrain. An especially curious baby deer stopped at stared at us for the longest time after his parents darted off. We stopped along the trail and stared back, wondering how long he would just stand there staring. Alas he had more patience than us, so we kept walking down the trail. Along the way we met a fellow and his black lab who were thru-hiking the trail. We would come to learn quite a bit about the trail from him.

A cold night camping below some waterfalls and then we were passing through Camp Hale, an old military complex tucked away in the valley and mountain sides here. The US Army’s 10th Mountain Division was trained here leading up to WWII and beyond, and it was even used by the CIA as a covert training ground for Tibetan rebels in the late 60’s. Now it is decommissioned and all that is left is concrete foundations and a massive concrete bunker built into the valley floor. Apparently the valley is still littered with unexploded ordnance, so there are restrictions about wandering off the trails.

As we followed the contours of the hills we crossed a major highway and stumbled upon a big gray rubbbermaid container sitting under a tree along the trial. On the lid was written “For Long Distance Hikers of the Colorado Trail”. Pulling the lid off, we found inside a veritable feast of everything a hungry/thirsty backpacker could want: Moonpies, Cheetos, Oreos, soda, Advil, Tums, first aid gear, fuel, and even more candy and snacks. We had our fill of healthy whole-grain crap, what we were craving was exactly this kind of junk. There was a logbook included, with entries that dated back for several hiking seasons. Apparently this little bit of “trail magic” was put here by a long time thru-hiker and proprietor of the Leadville Hostel, Wild Bill. This was a huge moral boosting event for us, on a day where we were both feeling the emotional and physical wear from the trail. We came across a couple more of these “trail angels” along the way, each one always being a heaven-send for us. In fact, and I’ll explain this in more detail later, one of the most profound experiences from this trek was the generosity and kindness bestowed upon us from complete strangers. The reward from discovering these treats was far greater than you could imagine from a pack of moonpies.

As we bounded down the trail with our heads full of sugar, we came across the remnants of the charcoal kilns (called coking ovens) that were used in the late 19th century to supply the booming industry of Denver and surrounding areas. In fact, the entire area had been clear-cut to create that charcoal, a pretty sad site back then I bet. Now the mountains have grown back their forests and you would have a hard time seeing that anything had ever been developed there. Further along we came across a very strange sight, a hand-made wooden bench swing right off the side of the trail, and a painted sign pointing to the “Continental Divide Cabin”. Our curiosity was piqued, so we followed the trail up and over a hill to a series of newly erected cabins and other structures. Apparently it was one of the many 10th Mountain Division huts that are built and maintained through that part of the Rockies for people to rent for days or weeks. There were locks on the doors so we turned around, but not without taking a rinse in the outdoor shower. We enjoyed a view from that swinging bench all the way out to Mt. Elbert and Mt. Massive, the second and third tallest mountains in the lower 48 states. The mountains were far away by sight, but surprisingly by the end of the following day we were camping right below them.

After being dropped off at the trail above Bailey, fully restocked and gung-ho ready to go, Jennifer and I made tracks. Speaking of tracks, we both recently got sucked into an addictive Canadian reality show called Mantracker, essentially pitting 2 cowboy trackers against 2 hapless “prey” in a cat-and-mouse chase through the woods. We soaked up a few episodes while on R&R, and now back on the trail we found ourselves analyzing every track and scuff we came across. Was this a dog or a coyote? Notice the toe-kick of this print, he must have been moving fast! We were shameless.

The thick pine forests eventually thinned out to open meadows and pasture as we climbed higher into the hills, where we frequently camped among cow pies and their makers. On a couple occasions through this stretch we were forced to use water of questionable quality, although my nifty Steripen anhailated (hopefully) the undesirables in it. Through this stretch we also learned a very important lesson about the fluid-dynamics of cold air. Even at lower elevations, valleys tend to channel the coldest air from the mountains, the result is the coldest air sits in the bottom of the valley, and much warmer air sits just above it on the sides and ridges. By far the coldest nights were spent camped along a stream or river in a valley, frequently awaking with ice covering our tarp and bags.

We continued working our way to the first major pass of the trip, Kenosha Pass. In hindsight, this pass was incredibly easy and the view was pretty, but not that breathtaking. However we had no idea what lay ahead nor how absurdly steep and exposed future passes would get, so as we topped out on this one we were quite proud of ourselves. To add to the excitement, we were buzzed by a military plane running low-altitude exercises through the valley. I’m not an expert on planes, but I think it was a C-130, which look pretty massive when they’re bearing down on you just 75 feet above your head at full speed. Just close enough to give the pilot a salute with eye-contact. The scenery kept getting better, from golden rolling hills of pasture to huge stands of aspens as we hit the pass. The largest and prettiest aspen groves of the whole trip were on top of Kenosha. Straight black & white trunks as far as you could see, shooting up into a canopy of flourescent green that cast a glowing, dappled shade on the ground. The sound of aspen leaves rustling in the wind is incredibly soothing, like the sound of a fall wind blowing piles of leaves down your street, or like the sound of a distant stream full of little waterfalls and cascades. These little oasis of warm, soft light and seductive whispers were always appreciated along our trip; we often stopped in these groves to watch and listen, and surely felt rejuvenated afterwards.

The trail carried us higher across more passes, each higher than the last. Georgia Pass was our first taste of the alpine tundra, an ecosystem that exists above treeline and below massive amounts of snow most of the year. Some of the oldest living organisms in the world live here, the bristle cone pines. A stumpy, gnarly little tree that doesn’t reveal it’s secret longevity at first glance. Wildflowers were always blooming when we climbed the passes, a gentle reward for the exertion. Marmots were ubiquitous at these elevations as well, always signaling our arrival to their friends with a sharp chirp. Another cute and fuzzy mammal that often joined the marmot’s chorus was the pika. A member of the rabbit family, it resembles a guinea pig with big ears, or a big mouse. They also announced our arrival with an even cuter whistle/chirp/sigh. Their sounds became so familiar through the trip that it almost became background noise. Although I still pointed and laughed every time I saw one of the marmots shuffling down the trail away from us, a big mass of fat and fur and tail flopping around until it was safely parked under a rock.

Now about 70 miles into the trail, we were approaching our first official resupply, Breckenridge. Before we left for the trail, we strategically planned out our meals for the next 4 weeks. We shopped around and loaded up with what we thought would be hearty, health, easy to cook food. We ended up with a lot of granola, jerky, oatmeal, muesli, coffee, sugar, dried milk, lentils, brown rice, quinoa, Annie’s mac & cheese (mmmm), mashed potatoes, pepperoni, salami, dried veggies, bullion cubes, tang, and tuna. We divvied this up into 4 boxes, one per resupply point along the trail. Then we mailed these boxes to the post offices in the respective towns for “general delivery”, which essentially means you’re mailing it for pickup at the post office. This way we saved a lot of time and hassle (and money) when we arrived in town, with all our food ready to go. This worked rather well, although a few items we shipped didn’t make it across, namely the salami which arrived bearing new and foreboding colors.

We arrived in Breckendridge early, where we promptly set about rounding up food and supplies, then treated ourselves to an epic meal. We heard rumors of an italian place with calzones that were as big as your thigh, each big enough for several people. Considering our appetite and trail dreams of greasy cheesy pizza, this was a no brainer. Our expectations were soundly met, the calzone was massive and delicious, and the two of us barely put one away. I still managed to have room for a caesar salad and a cannoli. This was the beginning of a trend for me; after every resupply I would gorge myself silly on rich food, eating epic proportions and managing to make room for every course. What followed was a form of food euphoria, a drunken stupor of bliss and giddiness with frequent attacks of the giggles. Even 3 weeks after the trail I still get this euphoria after eating a big meal; it’s as though the trail opened up a level of food appreciation I’ve never known before. Before setting back out on the trail, we resolved to get ourselves a pair of trekking poles. We had debated the idea before we left Denver, but decided it was probably just an unneccessary accessory for gear-obsessed hikers. By the time we got to Breck we were using whittled wooden poles, having realized the benefits on your feet, knees, and arms from using them. Each pole relieves about 10 lbs of impact from your leg each step you take. Compounded over hundreds of miles, this is a huge amount of impact. We were sold on the idea, and wanted to upgrade from our sticks. We browsed a couple shops in Breck and found that the cheapest poles were a hundred bucks (Breck is a cute, but touristy and ritzy mountain resort town), so we caught a bus up to a neighboring, more blue-collar town with a Walmart and found a pair of cheapo poles which would carry us all the way to Durango.

The bus took us back down to the trail, and after another few miles and several rolled ankles later (for some reason I forgot how to walk, maybe a result of the calzone) we set up camp at the base of what turned out to be the hardest mountain pass of the trip, the Ten Mile Range.

As I sit here in relative comfort and ease at my parent’s house in Palo Alto, cleaning out the fridge and ordering far too much pizza, it’s easy to forget that 3 weeks ago I was wrapping up a 500 mile, 34 day trek through the Colorado Rockies. 3 weeks ago I was having vivid dreams about all-you-can-eat buffets and greasy burgers piled high with bleu-cheese and jalapenos, while having to settle nightly for a 4 day rotation of either lentils, potato flakes, mac & cheese, or brown rice. Ironically, these same rich foods have now become an aversion, as I’ve had to gorge myself on them to regain the weight I lost from the trail. I’m only half-way there.

But there was more to the trail than these food dreams.

The Colorado Trail stretches 486 miles from the suburbs of Denver to the college town of Durango, in Southwest Colorado. It follows canyons, valleys, ridges, and mesas, intersecting and joining with the Continental Divide numerous times. The average elevation for the 34 days was around 10,000 feet, with sections frequently jumping up to 13,000 feet or thereabouts. The trail passes by several of Colorado’s famous 14’ers, peaks above 14,000 feet elevation, a couple of which I had the opportunity to climb.

Preparation for the CT was almost non-existant. I didn’t train for it, work out or anything more than my occasional jaunt through the woods with my dog. A month previous to the trip I backpacked through the Olympic National Park with my partner Jennifer and found out that a 20 mile hike in a single day was actually possible in some circumstances. However this trip did little more than instill a bit of confidence in me; I was in no better shape by the time I caught a train to Colorado a month later.

The decision to take a train to Colorado (from my family’s house in the Bay Area) was last minute. As it turns out, last minute train tickets are in-fact cheaper than last-minute flights. The train took 2 days to get to Denver, but was absolutely worth it. Never before have I met such a talkative, upbeat, happy group of commuters in my life. Everyone was so EXCITED to be on that train, I made more single-serving friends than every flight I’ve been on combined. Sadly, train food is about on par with plain food, and you have to PAY for it. But the scenery and rocking-cradle motion of the train made everything drift by in a euphoric blur.

Jennifer, the lovely and soon to be bad-ass-woman-of-the-trail, whisked me away to her family’s place in Palmer Lake, south of Denver. Here we mapped out the trek, gathered all our gear, planned for our supplies, shopped for all our food, and ate lots of good home-cooked meals before the departure. The original plan was I would leave solo and Jennifer would meet me on the trail a week or so later, where we would continue together to Durango.

My gear was gathered and ready, so a tearful goodbye was said after being dropped off at the trailhead outside of Denver. I started the march up the dirt road through Waterton Canyon, the Platte River flowing through it and filling the reservoirs downstream for the thirsty citizens of Denver. 7 miles later the dirt road ends next to a massive dam holding back another reservoir for Denver, and a winding trail begins the ascent towards the Continental Divide 50 miles beyond.

The next couple days are interesting to say the least. Colorado was in the midst of an unseasonably wet summer, weather more familiar to me while I was living in Seattle. For two days straight the rains were constant and heavy, with intermittent storms blustering through and causing general havoc to my camp setup. As I put the miles behind me, the scenery changes quite abruptly from wooded valleys to barren hills as far as you can see. I had entered the aftermath of the infamous Hayman Fire of 2002, Colorado’s largest forest-fire. The scenery was stunning, with a mix burnt out trunks and wildflowers covering the hills. Besides the homes and millions of acres of forest destroyed, the other downside of the fire was that it essentially destroyed the watershed. The once shade-covered ravines and valleys that carried streams through the area are now eroded and exposed, evaporating most of the water before it ever reaches the trail. This means that I had 13 more miles to hike with no access to drinking water, and I realized this having only a liter of water left in my pack. A volunteer fire-station with a fresh-water tap was rumored to exist off the trail those 13 miles later, and I found it without much trouble, albeit parched.

It was around this point that what was a minor pain in my Achilles tendon at the start of the trip was quickly turning into an excruciating pain with lightning bolts emphasizing it. As it turns out, the shoes I was planning on hiking 500 miles in were no good. I literally couldn’t walk anymore, so I took off the shoes and threw them into the bushes cursing. Realizing this was a rash move, I snatched them back out and clipped them onto my pack, walking barefoot now. After 30 minutes of this, I realized the stupidity of the situation: I had a pair of leather flip-flops I had taken along as camp shoes! I threw these on and finished the day. However I knew flip-flops were just a temporary solution. I thought about the matter for a while and finally came to the conclusion that shoes wouldn’t work. The damage had been done, my Achilles were so tender I could barely touch them, let alone slip them into a new unbroken pair of boots. The only thing I imagined would work was a pair of Chaco’s, essentially rugged Teva’s. So my trip had changed, and I needed to get myself back to civilization to resupply. In addition, I was tired of hiking solo. While JD was a great trail buddy, I missed my baby…and she had no idea I was coming to get her. The next access to a highway was 15 miles of trail and 8 miles of dirt road away, so I started hiking.

This, the day of the flip-flops, I met my first fellow thru-hiker. JD was is name, and the thickest Southern Drawl I’ve ever heard from a Coloradoan. Despite the background he shared with me, I swear he was on the lam, what better place to go than the Colorado Trail! This lead me down an interesting train of thought: If I ever got in too deep, had to make a getaway, disappear for a while, why I’ll thru-hike a long-trail! Anyways, JD turned out to be a great hiking companion despite his handicapped speech. After leaving the Hayman burn, the landscape turned into rolling hills and valleys with one aspen grove after another. Streams flowed once again, and drinking water was plentiful. Mushrooms and wildflowers were popping up everywhere, with lush greenery carpeting the forest floor. I eventually hit the dirt road that led out to the small town of Bailey.

Despite having very little experience hitchhiking, I was not enthusiastic about hiking another 8 miles and so flagged every passing car for a ride. I caught the 10th car on its way down into town, an Iraq vet who lived on and ran a wood-cutting business along the pass. He chatted me up all the way to Pine Junction, much farther than I had expected to get a ride from that forest-service road. The next ride was from a bunch of 20-something rock-climbers on their way to a granite mecca of some sort. They clouded up the car with strong smoke and relayed their life stories before dropping me along the highway as far as they could. After 30-40 minutes I caught another ride with a father-son duo, who both looked like the yokels from Deliverance. They actually turned out to be very friendly, chatting and blasting classic rock all the way down the winding mountain roads to a town called Woodland Park, not quite my destination but getting closer. My last ride was from a middle-aged guy with a penchant for laughing maniacally at everything I said, an infectious habit as I ended up doing the same thing all the way to Colorado Springs. Surprisingly, the rides were very easy to come by and I never felt uncomfortable, except when I worried about my stench as I climbed into the passenger seat. I tried to roll the window down whenever I had the opportunity.

When I arrived in the Springs, I called a surprised Jennifer who came and picked me up. Good timing too, as the local police had circled around at least 3 times since I got there, obviously suspicious of the new bum in town. After some good meals and a few days rest to let my feet recover, I got myself a pair of Chacos and started reorganizing for OUR return to the trail. While I was gone, Jennifer researched the wonders of tarp tenting, and sold me on the idea when I arrived. So we ditched the 5lb 2-person tent for a 1lb home-made tarp system. Check out this youtube video we modeled our system after. Rested and somewhat recovered, I dawned my Chacos and my now lighter pack (20lbs before food and water), and we got a ride back to Bailey (all in one go!) from Jennifer’s ever-so-considerate Dad.